PART TWO: A month later, I was back at Harare Hospital for a routine check-up. I thought it would be a quick in-and-out visit, I had even planned to make it to work for my scheduled recording. But I never left the hospital that day.

What was supposed to be a few minutes turned into hours of queues, probing of my privates in a room full of eager medical students, blood tests, whose results, due to my anemia, were not favorable, scans, a Pap smear, more queues, payments, anxiety, and an overwhelming sense of loneliness.

At my big age of 36, I needed my mother more than ever, to hold me and make everything disappear. By lunchtime, a cannula was already in my arm as I moved up and down the hospital corridors waiting for admission. According to the gynecologist, the progression of my condition required surgery first thing the next morning. But there were so many patients ahead of me, pushing my operation to the following year, unless a fee was paid. Desperate to get to the other side of this pain, I was ready to do whatever it took to get on that operating table.

As the sun went down, I made my way to the ward, my heart in my throat. I called my mother to tell her I’d been admitted and asked her to bring supplies the next day. I also left a message for my eldest daughter’s teacher, explaining my sudden hospitalization. I hated the disruption, to my life, my job, my goals, but I had to surrender to the doctors and hope for the best.

I shuffled into the ward like a sheep to the slaughter, the hospital smells hitting me anew. So many what ifs filled my head. One female gynecologist had earlier told me I was too young and asked if my husband was okay with me not being able to have children anymore. I looked at her, silent, but in my mind, I was screaming: What about my pain? What about the quality of my life that has deteriorated? Doesn’t that count for something?

The night after my initial hospital visit, I had gotten a ride into town from a man who, after I overshared why I was there, launched into a lecture about religion and spirituality. He said I had been bewitched and offered to take me to a Madzibaba who could reverse the curse. I politely promised to stay in touch, but deep down, I knew he would never hear from me again.

It wasn’t the first time someone had tried to convince me to “see someone.” I’d heard “pray about it” countless times. Girl, what do you mean? I had prayed my voice hoarse for years, to be well, to feel better. What I needed was for someone to tell me that everything would be alright.

That night, I lay awake in my hospital bed, my mind racing. I hadn’t eaten all day, my stomach churning from both hunger and nerves. I asked a colleague to stay online with me until I fell asleep, which I eventually did, only to be jolted awake by a heartbreaking cry echoing from somewhere in the hospital. A father mourning his lost child. A chill went down my spine. What if I didn’t make it past the operating table? What would become of my children? My mother? Was it too late to back out of the surgery?

I wrestled with my thoughts until daylight, when the morning-shift nurses replaced the night staff, who, to my surprise, had treated me better than I expected, given my earlier experience at the outpatients’ section.

Without much mental preparation, I found myself getting ready for surgery. There was no running water in the bathroom, so the hospital orderlies brought in buckets for us to use. I received my ration, in a borrowed bucket, since my mum hadn’t yet arrived, and gave myself a quick wash. I stripped off all my jewelry, replaced my dress with a thin hospital gown, and waited.

Before I could even gather my thoughts, I was being wheeled to theatre. I signed my consent forms at the door. The room was cold, the bed narrow and uncomfortable, my teeth chattering as doctors chatted casually nearby. Then came the instruction: Spread your arms like a flying eagle.

The anesthetist smiled and said, “We’re going to put you to sleep. Start counting.”

I began to count, one… two… three…

I never reached six… TO BE CONTINUED.

In this powerful New Series, writer and advocate Cecilia Kamuputa opens up about her deeply personal journey through adenomyosis and total abdominal hysterectomy, shedding light on the realities of women’s health, delayed diagnosis, and the strength it takes to reclaim one’s body and voice.